


Grandchild

by petrichor_rain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Grief, Loss, Non-binary character, Religion, Road Trip, Stigmata, mashiach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 21:06:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4720439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petrichor_rain/pseuds/petrichor_rain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When their grandmother died, all ey had left was a wilting red columbine and tales of the American Messiah.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grandchild

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Askance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askance/gifts).
  * Inspired by [bethlehem](https://archiveofourown.org/works/742250) by [Askance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askance/pseuds/Askance). 



> We were supposed to write a short story in my creative writing class, and this is what I wrote. I did not have access to the actual texts of Mashiach while I was writing it, so many of the details do not line up with the story. But I tried to produce something merely inspired by, and in the spirit of, that amazing series. So forgive my mistakes and poor writing skills and read on :)

Saint Survivor. She had seen him when she was a little girl. Or that’s what she told em, in the later days when the pain didn’t let her leave the bed.  


He was sitting in the backseat of a big black car, white bandages wrapped around bleeding head and hands. His voice had been gentle and soft, his smile tired. 

She had wandered away from a birthday party, chocolate frosting smeared on small fingers, drawn by the strange man with the long hair. “You look like Jesus,” her matter-of-fact voice had stated, and Saint Survivor had smiled at that, and said yes, he supposed he did. Her mother had come running over then, worried about this conversation her daughter had struck up with a stranger. 

Eir grandmother said the American Messiah had shone. “Like the sun, love, just like the sun.” Her paper-soft whisper barely rustled the thin pillows.  


Later, after the cool earth had settled over wing fragile bones, her grandchild returned to the apartment they had shared. Sitting on the dust sprinkled comforter, ey stared at the single red columbine wilting by the bedside of their late grandmother. Sliding the cracking stem out of the vase, ey methodically tore each browning petal off and let it twirl to the floor, watching detachedly as the pile of dark red grew.

The bare stem came to rest on top as the sound of a slamming door echoed in the empty space and a pale green hybrid drove out of sight.  
The sound of a Johnny Cash cover rolled softly out of the radio as ey tapped eir fingers restlessly on the steering wheel, staring blankly at the still highway. Life is often about the journey, not the destination, and there were few places ey could think of to journey to now. 

A motel room, often mentioned in their grandmother’s mutterings, somewhere on the border of Colorado. The usual shitty carpeting, tiny bathroom shower with cracked tile cold underfoot. Sheets stained with ungodly matter and a peeling wallpaper reminiscent of Woodstock. 

“Gardenias,” their grandmother had told em. “The smell of the loveliest garden flowing through his veins.”  
Motels and flowers, ey thought. Who cares. A motel room is just a motel room, and no one’s blood smells like gardenias.

A raven pecking among the tired weeds startled with a rush of black wings as the small green car took off, heading west into a fast approaching storm. Rain beat down and lightning split the sky, the highway turning a slick black. The light green hybrid fought to stay on the road as forceful winds pushed at the car with the grace of a petulant child. 

As the rain poured down harder and a loud boom of thunder shook the trees, ey was forced to pull to the side, stopping amidst the wind-beaten grasses lining the highway. 

Welcome to Iowa! a cheerful sign declared. 

A few feet beyond the sign, a roughly built building was visible. Grimy windows sat crooked in wooden walls, and the door groaned as ey heaved it open, the wet wood soft under their palm. Inside it was strangely silent, and no raindrops could be heard drumming on the roof. A few candles were lit, and a plain altar stood at the far end of the room.  


Walking past the crude pews, ey thought that eir grandmother would have liked the makeshift chapel, complete with a red beaded rosary draped over the end of one pew. Lying on the altar was a grainy black and white photograph. Hesitantly, and with a touch of reverence, ey picked up the photo.

It showed the body of a young man, lying in a tomb with red marks drawn on his hands and feet with a red Sharpie. Unsettled, ey replaced the picture and turned away. A book ey had seen on their grandmother's shelf came to mind; something about the Jewish mashiach, and a phenomenon called stigmata. Glancing once more at the rosary, ey shouldered the door open, glad to see the storm had ended. The bright blue sky vaulted above em as a breeze nudged eir shoulder, smelling faintly of gardenias.


End file.
